


a strikin success

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Decadence, Drug Use, Gothic Literature, Homestuck Shipping Olympics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing worse than being gossiped about is <i>not</i> being gossiped about, and the more his name is linked with young Lord A—'s the more reason the boy will have to come to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a strikin success

The boy causes quite a stir when he first arrives in the capital. He looks shockingly familiar, from the sharp crook of his horns to the elegant flare of his fins to the damning blood streak in his hair. People are bound to talk. They are at first relatively discreet, but given the nature of gossip in general and the potency of this rumor in particular, that cannot last. It is a brown-blooded ruffian, himself a constant source of titillation for the aristocrats of the decadent circle, who asks at last: "So, who'd you pail to throw a bastard like little Lord A—, anyway?"

Dualscar smiles, because now he has a name for the boy, and says, "A gentleman doesn't fill and tell." That will of course only make the rumors worse, as Dualscar has a long-standing reputation for being an invert who goes without pails entirely, preferring acts of perversion that stand no chance of siring offspring. Well, let them talk. The only thing worse than being gossiped about is _not_ being gossiped about, and the more his name is linked with young Lord A—'s the more reason the boy will have to come to him.

He lets the anticipation build for most of a perigee before he leaves his calling card at the boy's lodgings, with an invitation to come share a private room in an orphorium den (owned, under an alias, by the fantastically wicked Marquise M—, a lady Dualscar holds in high esteem). If the boy is anything like Dualscar was himself at that age—and by appearances he is _very much_ of that mold—then flattery and appeal to his curiosity will bring him without fail.

Indeed the boy comes, without fail, without even managing to delay his arrival long enough to provoke suspense. He introduces himself by the personal name of Eridan, his eyes wide in the dim light and the violet of his irises still tinged with adolescent gold. Dualscar takes a slow drag from the water pipe, demonstrating the technique, and then offers it to his young double. Even this close, he can see no signs of any other troll's genetic heritage in Eridan's face.

He waits until Eridan has had his first taste of the orphorium, and then asks, "May I inquire after the health of the good Dr. V—?"

Eridan coughs and sputters. "Howw," he says, "I mean, who told you I wwas...." His accent is pure tidewater, as thick as Dualscar's was when he first came to the capital sweeps ago.

"I made an assumption," Dualscar says, "which you've just borne out. I knew he was interested in the properties of the blood, and the possibility of creating life through artificial incubation. The last time I saw him," and here it becomes impossible to resist; Dualscar reaches out to touch the flared and trembling tines of Eridan's nearer fin, "he had not yet managed such a striking success."

"I'm a strikin success, huh," Eridan says, and while he endeavors to look smug there's a brittleness to the expression that provokes a flutter of tenderness in Dualscar's vascular pump.

"You are a marvvel," Dualscar tells him, seized with a fierce and brilliant pride at the idea that this beautiful boy is created of his essence alone.

"An you're a glubbin vvain bastard," Eridan answers, leaning into the touch of Dualscar's fingers.

Dualscar laughs. "How could I not be?" His thumb traces the strong line of Eridan's cheekbone, this very image of himself from sweeps ago. "Wwe're damned handsome, you and I."

He can see a pang of something like regret in Eridan's eyes, and guesses at the reason for it: Dr. V— is an outcaste, living in hiding, planning rebellion. Even when Dualscar was more closely acquainted with him, there was always that tension between personal affection and revolutionary ideal. Eridan must have been sent to the capital for a reason, and likely that reason isn't simply to enjoy its charms.

"Here," Dualscar says, pressing the pipe into Eridan's hand again. "Havve a bit more."

Eridan takes another long pull on the pipe, taking in the sweet orphorium smoke. His pupils shine, dilated wide, his eyelids drooping. "Good stuff," he admits. "Makes you wwant a just drift awway."

Dualscar lounges across the cushions, pulling Eridan down beside him. "Is that all you wwant?" he asks.

"You're fuckin amazin," Eridan whispers. "He told me wwhat to expect but I nevver thought you'd be so...." He shakes his head, the orphorium robbing him of the words.

"Beautiful boy," Dualscar says. Eridan reaches up to touch his scars with shaking, reverent fingers. "Let me adore you." He kisses the pads of Eridan's fingertips. "Let me wworship you." He licks the heart line that crosses Eridan's palm, tasting sweetness and salt.

Dr. V— may have created this boy as an instrument of revolution, but Dualscar knows him down to his very cells. The taste for luxury runs in his rich violet blood, and the need for affection burns in his nerves. Eridan clutches Dualscar's lapels desperately, bringing their lips together, and from the first taste of him Dualscar is certain: this boy is now and forever his.


End file.
